“Yeah.” I come back to my bed and pull my laptop up from the floor. “Feck knows what I’m going to say.”
“What have they asked you to talk about?”
“About being asexual, but even I don’t think I can talk about that for twelve whole minutes, not without putting half of the audience to sleep, half of an audience who are literal sex workers.”
“I’m sure many of them could benefit from listening to you talk about being asexual.”
I give them a very insincere eyebrow raise. “Really? You think people who literally post their sex lives on the Internet give a crap about somebody who has a physical revulsion to the idea of certain body parts touching?” My voice gets loud, the pitch high and my neck feels tense. I don’t mean for that to happen but still it does.
“Is that what you experience? Does it make you feel sick, thinking about that?” Loncey’s question is delivered gently, softly, but still it feels like a sharp poke or jab in my side.
“Kinda.” I shrug. “It doesn’t make me feel good, I’ll tell you that.”
They look at me, unblinking, for many long seconds. “I was going to say I’m sorry that that’s your experience, but that implies there’s something wrong or lacking with your experience and there isn’t. There really isn’t anything wrong with you feeling that way.”
It’s my turn to stare at them intensely for a long moment, because I am not fully prepared for how what they just said makes me feel. Or maybe it’s more about what I don’t feel that has me feeling this way. Because I don’t feel ashamed. I don’t feel damaged or faulty. I don’t feel weird and I don’t feel odd.
I feel validated. I feel seen. I feel whole. I feel… worthy.
I don’t know why but this also makes me feel like I want to jump out of my skin and run away, or attack them again with another pillow but I’ve run out of pillows to throw at them and besides, Loncey’s eyelids are already half-closed.
“Will you shut the fuck up and go to sleep?” I say and again it comes out a lot harsher than I intend. But it’s too late now. It doesn’t seem to perturb Loncey, however, who lets their eyes close fully while a small smile pulls their lips up.
“Goodnight, Maeve. Good luck with your speech,” they say.
I only look at them to wait and see if they’re asleep. I only keep my eyes on their peaceful expression and plump lips so that I can be sure they’ve slipped into a deep slumber. I only watch their chest rise and fall at a slow, steady pace so that I’m sure they’re in a deep, deep sleep.
I absolutely do not feel a strange but not unwelcome sense of contentment knowing they’re sleeping peacefully. I absolutely do not study the curl in their eyelashes. I absolutely do not wonder what their lips would feel like pressed up against my own.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Loncey
Iopen my eyes slowly. It takes me a few seconds to realize where I am, and I get my answer when my eyes land on Maeve who is sitting on her bed, hunched over her laptop with a deep frown on her face.
I am about to say something to announce my return to consciousness, but then I realize that would mean she stops pouting at the screen in this adorable way. It would mean she would sit up a little straighter and smooth out the wrinkles gathered around her narrowed eyes. It would mean she gives me one of her hair tosses rather than letting her hair just lie where it is, gathered around her face like a proud mane.
No, I’m going to lie here and watch her for as long as I possibly can. I’m going to stay quiet and…
“Jesus fucking Christ of Bethlehem!” she exclaims as she looks up at me. “You scared the living shit out of me!”
“What? By lying still in bed?” I ask incredulously.
“No, by staring at me like a big fecking creep.”
“I was just waking up!” I grab hold of the pillow she threw at me earlier and I chuck it back her way.
She blocks it deftly with a raised arm. “But you didn’t have to stare at me like that!”
“Jesus, give me a break. You looked cute.”
“Cute?” she asks and it sounds very much like an accusation.
I sit up in bed. “Maeve, you know you’re a showstopping smokeshow.”
“Smokeshow?” She picks up her phone and puts it to her ear. “Hello? Is that the 1950s? Yeah, I think you left someone behind.”
I laugh at her. “I’m fast learning it’s impossible to give you a compliment.”
